


Train to Nowhere

by jaegermighty



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Dreams vs. Reality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegermighty/pseuds/jaegermighty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t serve honey in the dining car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train to Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on Tumblr: "[incredibly long crosscountry train ride AU](http://jaegermighty.tumblr.com/post/76663120233/hello-hi-i-literally-have-no-idea-if-youre-taking)"

She sees him in the dining car every morning, she notices because he’s the only other person who speaks English, she overheard him saying “I’m sorry, did I step on your bag—” before switching abruptly to French, two mornings ago, as she sat by the window and drank tea with lemon.

He’s handsome, she supposes, if you like that sort of thing. He has the sort of face that looks like a completed jigsaw puzzle; every piece perfectly locking into place, with a sense of rightness about him that you see in film stars and politicians. A face you can trust, a face for the flicks, as her father used to say.

He looks at her as he walks past every morning, but he never stops.

 

 

Felicity, is her name, she knows this because it’s on her ticket. She looks at her ticket every time she goes to sleep, which she does because they turn the lights off every night at quarter to nine. _S., Felicity,_ is what it says, right above _G.A. 3 Westbound Era 54,_ whatever that means. Felicity doesn’t waste time thinking of it.

Her car is very comfortable, it provides for all her needs adequately. There are always clean clothes in the cupboard, and an en-suite with a very nice shower, which she uses every morning. The towels are always clean and warm, and there’s always a book to read, sitting on the nightstand when she emerges. It changes every day, or maybe it doesn’t, because she often doesn’t remember what she’s read.

Sometimes she hears voices in her sleep, she wouldn’t call them dreams exactly but they’re there, nonetheless. Maybe she’s a psychic, she wonders idly, maybe she’s hearing the voices of souls who have passed on. She thinks that would make sense, since they always sound so sad.

 

 

She thinks she likes tea. Sometimes she stares down at her cup (dining car, twice a a day, breakfast and supper, because lunch comes delivered to her car at half past twelve) and has this wisp of an idea, like a thought formed halfway. Sometimes too she’ll reach out, thinking, _honey,_ like a revelation. It feels like an epiphany each and every time—she wants honey. Isn’t that something.

It fades quickly, though. They don’t serve honey in the dining car.

 

 

The man wears suits. Sometimes Felicity can look at the cuff of his sleeve and identify which one it is; there are three that he rotates between. One is blue, one is black, one is grey. All of them have matching ties.

One morning, as he’s walking past her, walking past and looking at her, Felicity reaches out and touches that sleeve. She doesn’t know why she does it. Maybe it’s the voices.

"Madame," he says.

"Pardonnez-moi," Felicity replies, "my name is Felicity."

He stops and stares at her. Abruptly, she pulls her hand back, feeling foolish.

“Je m’excuse,” she says, “my mistake, I thought—”

"Felicity," he replies, a little distantly. "Est-ce que je te connais?"

The train lurches suddenly, sending the man staggering forward a few steps. He reaches out and grasps the handle for balance, and over the speaker, Felicity hears a polite, French voice telling everyone to return to their seats. 

"No," she says, as the man melts away with a distracted smile. No, he probably doesn’t know her.

 

 

She can’t write, there are no pens. No paper, either, other than the book, and it changes every day. So Felicity keeps her list in her head.

Her list is of the things that she hears when she sleeps, which are as follows, alphabetically:

_Can you hear me?_  
 _How am I supposed to [indistinct] why? Why would you?_  
 _I don’t understand._  
 _I love you._  
 _I’m so angry at you._  
 _Please wake up._  
 _Sara’s going crazy._  
 _We need you here._

She has no context for these things, but she keeps track of them anyway. Dead people probably have very important things to say, she thinks.

 

 

Sometimes she sees other passengers. Obviously, there are other passengers, but she doesn’t always see them. Their faces are blurred, rubbed out somehow. She doesn’t think much of the feeling she gets, when she looks at their color smear faces.

There’s the man, though, she can see his face. Another man who she sees standing by the door, always in a dark uniform of some kind. He has a kind face, even if he often looks very severe.

A woman, with blonde hair and freckles, in men’s clothing, who smokes a cigarette by the window. Another young girl in a short, blue dress. There’s a mole on her cheek and she always looks like she’s about to cry. A young boy who sits next to her and holds her hand. 

Maybe she could speak to them. Like she spoke to the man. Maybe she already is. Maybe they’re the voices she hears when she sleeps.

Maybe.

 

 

One morning, just after the shower, she’s standing in front of the mirror holding a tube of lotion. It’s the same lotion she puts on her hands and feet every day after the shower. There’s nothing at all different about it.

Nothing at all different about anything, the only different at all is her. Only her. Is it the same because she’s always different? Does it count as being different if being different never changes?

On impulse, she takes a handful of lotion and smears it on the mirror, right over the reflection of her own face. When she turns away to wipe off her hand, it’s gone when she looks back.

It doesn’t do much for her, emotionally.

 

 

The man looks at her more often now. Sometimes when he’s walking to his seat, holding a coffee cup. Sometimes while he’s drinking his coffee, he looks, instead of reading the paper. She doesn’t blame him; she can’t imagine it’s all that interesting. All it is is black and blue scribbles.

One day, she steels her shoulders and walks over. She half expects the train to lurch again, to crash, for hooded men in black to emerge and drag her away, kicking and screaming. None of that happens.

"Good morning," she says, and sits down across from him. He nods at her politely. "Did you sleep well?"

"Oui," he says. Felicity tries to smile. She thinks she succeeds. "And you?"

"Yes," she replies. This is a lie. 

She doesn’t know what else to say, so she doesn’t say anything. Her tea appears on time and she drinks it slowly like she always does, watching the blurry scenery fly past, outside the window.

When his coffee is gone, he folds up his newspaper and hands it to her, nodding once more and standing. She nods back.

"I hope you have a good day," he says sincerely. She smiles again, maybe a little easier this time. He walks away, holding a briefcase under his arm

(This will become a habit.)

 

 

She starts hearing the voices when she’s awake. Maybe she’s going crazy. Maybe she’s already crazy. It would certainly explain a lot.

Sometimes she drifts off in the middle of her reading, distracted by the pounding in her ears. Like they’re coming from her own blood, _wake up, I love you, wake up, I love you_. She hates it. No—she doesn’t hate it. She hates it a little but not really, because if they weren’t there what would she do? But she hates that they’re there, because what can she do?

One night she’s standing by the window when she hears something new for her head list: _I hate you._ She stands very still for a second, then she takes her book and throws it at the wall. Then she picks it up and throws it again. Then she keeps doing it until it’s a crumpled mess of ripped paper and broken spine and Felicity kneels on the ground of her tiny cabin and covers her face and wishes this would all just end already.

(she would fix this if she could if she knew how if she were strong if she weren’t so used to it, fuck you for thinking otherwise, fuck _fuck you_ —)

 

 

"Where is this train going?" she asks the man the next morning. She can’t believe the question has never occurred to her before.

"Wherever you want it to," he replies, absentmindedly. Behind him, the blonde woman with the cigarette laughs loudly, leaning her head against the window, one boot propped up on her table. 

"What if I want it to stop?"

"Then stop it."

Felicity stares at her tea. Next to her right hand is a jar of honey. She hadn’t noticed it until just now.

"Oliver," she says.

"Yes?" He lowers his paper, one eyebrow raised. "What is it; are you alright? Did Diggle call?"

"No," Felicity says, and sort of wants to cry. "No, I just wanted to say your name. That’s all."

"Oh. Okay." He folds up the paper with a shrug. "As long as you’re okay."

She’s not okay, but he probably knows that. Nothing to do about it, either. This is one of those inside jobs, she thinks.

"You’ll figure it out," he says, with confidence. He reaches out to take her hand, squeezing it so tightly her rings dig into her fingers. "You’re remarkable."

"Yeah, I know," she says.

 

 

She goes back to her cabin and stares at the window again. The book is sitting on the nightstand waiting for her. There are clean towels in the bathroom. Clean clothes, folded in the cupboard.

If she presses her palm to the glass, she can feel the cool air, leaking in through the edges, where the seam is peeling away. Outside, there’s bright sunlight. She thinks she can just barely see the outline of Starling City in the distance, peeking up over the horizon.

Stop it, she thinks, and closes her eyes, waits for the crash.


End file.
